


Dagor Aglareb

by Elenyafinwe



Series: Servants [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Child Loss, Drama, F/M, Family Loss, First Age, Loss, One Shot, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28360137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenyafinwe/pseuds/Elenyafinwe
Summary: Having had no time to put on his armour and therefore surviving the Dagor Aglareb only by luck, Rethtulu, servant of Maedhros, vows never again to be found without his armour. Glad to have escaped with his life, however, a far greater tragedy awaits him after the battle.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Servants [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076924
Kudos: 4





	Dagor Aglareb

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Dagor Aglareb](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/732126) by Elenyafinwe. 



> This is an older text, I guess from 2015 or so. I'm not quite happy with this but it's Rethtulu's backstory and kind of important for him. It's also the story why he always wears his armour.
> 
> CN death, violence, war, graphic representation of wounds, violence against women, loss of relatives

Right! Left! In front of him! Behind him! Rethtulu hardly knew where to look first. Everywhere were the black enemies, those disgusting creatures they called _orcor_. On all sides he swung his sword. Blood flowed from the blade and splattered on all sides, black, stinking blood. Screams and curses echoed through the air around him, screams of pain, screams of rage and death. This was not his first battle, which would hereafter be called Dagor Aglareb, and yet the battle overwhelmed him again and again. Death reaped a thousandfold that day.

After the Dagor-nuin-Giliath the princes of the Noldor had celebrated, for they believed themselves invincible. Beleriand was now their realm and Morgoth sat weak and trembling in the north. Or so they had believed, but Morgoth had gathered his forces in secret and had moved south to test the vigilance of his enemies. But they were not asleep, neither the High King Fingolfin nor Rethtulu's Lord Prince Maedhros, and they moved against Morgoth's hordes as his main army attacked Dorthonion.

Everything had happened so quickly, everything had come as a surprise. In no time at all, the Noldor lords had been hunting down the scattered hordes of orcs, while Fingolfin and Maedhros had been advancing against the main army. Then, all of a sudden, it had appeared ready for battle. Rethtulu had hurriedly put on his master's armour and he had already rushed into battle. Rethtulu had had to follow his duty and had not found time to put on his own armour.

Now he found himself in the middle of the battle armed only with his sword and otherwise almost unprotected. He was already bleeding from several wounds, few of them deep, but numerous. His arms grew heavier and heavier each time he raised his sword against an enemy. His hands were slippery from the blood that clung to them and he struggled to hold his weapon securely.

But even now he was trying to fulfil his duties as a servant of Lord Maedhros. Where was he? In all the confusion of the battle, he had lost sight of him. He had to protect him! There! That's when he saw the Lord's redhead flashing in the crowd. How good it was that Maedhros was so tall, and also sitting on his mighty, midnight-black warhorse. Rethtulu gathered all his remaining strength and tried to fight his way to his master.

His breath came in gasps. His vision blurred. Arms trembled with exhaustion. From all sides, arms seemed to reach for him, claws to strike at him, swords to be brandished at him. A sea of enemies surged around him. Where were his allies? Was he the last of them? Were they lost? The Lord had to be able to escape! His survival was of the utmost importance! If something happened to him, they would be without guidance and disoriented.

Rethtulu noticed how his thoughts and reflexes became slower and slower. He had to take more and more blows and each of them robbed him of more and more of his strength. Was the end near? His end? Was it really going to end like this? So miserable because he simply hadn't had time to put on his armour? How pointless it would be! If he survived this battle, he swore to himself, he would never again be found without his armour.

It made him furious that he could not advance to his master, too many enemies were between them and too ruthlessly Maedhros fought on and on according to his nature. But this gave Rethtulu new strength. His master had always been an example to him, strong and unyielding. Surely he would not disappoint him by simply giving up and dying in this fight! No, he would fight to the last drop of blood that ran through his veins and sacrifice everything to protect what was dear to him. And should it be his death, he would kill as many orcs as he could until they overpowered him themselves. Maedhros did not know the word "surrender" or did not want to know it, Rethtulu would not want to learn it now! No, he would be strong, as strong as his master!

And he was strong, strong enough to be allowed to experience the end of his suffering, the sweet, sweet end.

" _Túre!_ " someone shouted across the battlefield. " _Turelva!_ "

Rethtulu had not noticed how the orcs around him had started to fight back. His thoughts were too clouded by pain and too intent on getting through to his master. And even now, for the first moment, he found it difficult to grasp the meaning of those words. Victory? Whose victory? What could it mean? Had the orcs triumphed over them? Or were they the ones who now drove the orcs before them in droves and hounded them to death?

But little by little Rethtulu understood what was going on around him. Yes, they had won the victory and he was still alive, covered in blood and with torn clothes. A smile gleamed through the dirt on his face. It was over.

Where he stood, he dropped the sword. It slipped from his feeble fingers and fell into the mud. Around him, the allies rushed past to hunt down the orcs, but he just stood there, unable to move the slightest muscle. Exhaustion burst upon him like a great wave with all its might. All at once he felt as if lead weights were hanging from his arms, his knees went weak and his legs broke away from under him. He fell limp and exhausted in the mud and could no longer move. Desperately he gasped for air and yet could hardly fill his lungs with enough.

Minutes, hours, days, years. He didn't know how long he had been lying there in the mud, staring at the grey sky. At some point it started to rain and at least some of the dirt was washed off him, exposing his wounds. He had lost count of how many there were. And they all burned so terribly and didn't want to stop! When the greatest exhaustion had worn off far enough, he felt the pain of his wounds all the more. He groaned in agony.

He should urgently see a healer. None of his injuries might be life-threatening, but in the aggregate they could well become so. He had lost a lot of blood and was covered in blood and dirt. Elves did not know diseases, but gangrene had already cost the lives of many of their own.

Weakly he began to stir and reached for his sword. His fingers grasped the hilt. His weapon still seemed to weigh a hundredweight, but he managed to pull it towards him from the mud. With difficulty he straightened up, every millimetre of his body aching with the movement.

Now came the hardest part: standing up. Carefully he brought his legs into position. Wounds already partially closed with crusted blood burst open again and began to bleed anew. Red fluid flowed down his legs. He grimaced.

Carefully he planted his feet and supported himself with his hands on the soft, yielding floor. He took several deep breaths and collected himself. Then he pushed himself up, but had not used enough strength, slipped in the mud and fell belly-down. Mud and water got into his nose and mouth and he had to cough and gag. He looked for a halfway clean corner of his clothes and wiped the mud from his eyes. Resignedly he sighed. It would be possible for him to get up after all! He tried again.

Only at the third attempt did he stand, leaning on his sword, on wobbly legs, breathing heavily and already on the verge of total exhaustion. Only after a few moments of deep breathing was he able to turn his attention to his surroundings.

A desolate picture of destruction presented itself. The battlefield resembled a desert of dead bodies, blood and mud. Bodies of friend and foe alike lay wildly scattered next to and on top of each other. Dismembered bodies, scattered intestines and severed limbs could be seen everywhere. Wounded men lay moaning on the ground, clutching their wounds and mutilated limbs in lamentation. Survivors roamed the battlefield looking for their friends and relatives, the injured and the dead. Lamentations over all the dead rose above the field or exclamations of joy and happiness if the loved one was still alive.

The harvest of death had been extremely abundant. Rethtulu contorted his face. He tried to be optimistic, telling himself that their losses could have been far higher, and that they were still small compared to the number of the living.

Losses …

Had he himself perhaps suffered losses? He was alive, but what about his friends, relatives? What about his master? Only now had he been able to gather all his thoughts together enough to think about it. Worried, he looked around. His injuries were secondary, he had to find answers to these questions!

He limped off, even though he didn't know exactly where to turn. Where had he last seen his master? There? No. Or maybe he had? He didn't know anymore, everything looked so the same, marked by death and desolation. And his brother, where had he gone? Rethtulu couldn't even remember the last time he had seen him during the battle, he had been too focused on staying with his master.

Instead of finding, he was eventually found. At one point he saw a tall elf coming towards him. It was Malcimir, his elder brother. He looked worried as he came towards him, even more so when he realised that things were bad for Rethtulu, whereupon he quickened his pace.

"Alacenandur!" he exclaimed. His look showed great concern when he saw all Rethtulu's numerous wounds. "You need urgent attention. At least you are still conscious, although it seems to me a miracle that you are. Where is your armour?"

"There was no time to put it on," Rethtulu explained. "I had to help Lord Maitimo put on his, and then I didn't have the chance myself."

Malcimir shook his head. "Sometimes our lord has too little regard for his subordinates," he said. "That should not have happened. Too easily you could have been killed!"

Something flared in his eyes at these words that made Rethtulu think. Was it sorrow?

The younger shrugged his shoulders. "It has happened and I am still alive, that is all that matters now," he said and then changed the subject, "Has something happened? I don't like the look on your face."

Now the pain in the warrior's eyes became clear. He put an arm around Rethtulu's shoulder. "Come with me to the camp for now. Everything else can wait until you've been taken care of."

"Malcimir ..." began Rethtulu hesitantly. Surely nothing really bad could have happened!

"Later, Alacenandur, later ..." That ended that subject for Malcimir for the moment.

He supported his little brother on his back and then took him back to the camp that the victorious army leaders had set up not far from the battlefield. The way to the military hospitals was not far, even though they were by far not the only ones who had gone there. Numerous wounded had already been recovered from the battlefield and the number was constantly increasing. Accordingly, it took time until they had found a healer who could take care of Rethtulus. The elf kept shaking his head at the numerous wounds and probably also wondered why one did not wear armour in a battle. There was an awkward silence between the brothers, even if Rethtulu did not know the reason for it and meanwhile wondered if he even wanted to know.

The healer's treatment took only time and afterwards Rethtulu was prescribed strict bed rest for several days and some remedies to promote the healing process. Then he was discharged.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" he asked his brother when they had left the hospital tent.

"Come with me," was all Malcimir said. This time he led him to the edge of the camp where they would not be heard so quickly. Malcimir finally stopped, stepping nervously from one leg to the other and looking affected.

"Well, how shall I put it?" he began. "Vórimadiþ, she ... well ... she ... was found dead. I'm sorry …"

A world collapsed. Rethtulu's heart stopped for a moment. Vórimadis was his wife and she carried their child under her heart.

"How can this be?" he asked breathlessly. "You must be mistaken. She is not here at all."

Malcimir just shook his head sadly. "Yes, she was." He wrapped his brother in his arms comfortingly. "No one can say what got into her. It must have been some kind of madness that afflicted her, a work of the enemy."

Rethtulu was at first incapable of a single movement. But then the tears finally came. He wrapped his arms around his brother in search of support and wept bitterly on his shoulder. Why? Why? His sweet Vórimadis, his sweet, sweet spouse! Why did this have to happen? He would never be able to hold his child in his arms, he had not even been allowed to see his little face. Why was this done to him? Why was fate so cruel to him? Was this his punishment for being a kinslayer? But even a kinslayer of Alqualonde never deserved such a cruel fate! He had never harmed a child. Why was his taken from him?

Malcimir said nothing, for there were no words of comfort for such pain. Still less, for none of them could say whether Vórimadis would receive a gracious welcome in the halls of Mandos, she, the wife of a kinslayer and follower of the Feanorians. So he merely held his brother in his arms and cradled him gently.

"I will always be there for you," he promised, whispering.

Rethtulu was grateful for the support his brother gave him, the strong shoulder to lean on. Something that still lasted, something he could rely on now that it was all over.

"Father has already spoken to Prince Maitimo," Malcimir said after a while, after Rethtulu had calmed down a little. "He knows about it and has given you leave to have time to grieve and recover."

"That is kind of him," Rethtulu said in a raspy voice, meaning both his father and his master. He himself would never have gone to Prince Maedhros with this request on his own. Service was service for him and had to be strictly separated from his private life. Now, however, he saw for himself that it was probably better if he had some time just for himself to process what had just happened.

Oh, Vórimadis! How he missed her!

"Where is she now?" he asked quietly. "Where did they take her?"

"To father's tent," said Malcimir. "Come, I'll take you there so you can say goodbye."

Rethtulu only nodded and followed his brother.

Hílyalandur was already waiting for them outside his tent. When he saw them, he came to meet them and in turn also hugged his youngest.

"Oh, my poor boy," he said in sympathy. "You don't deserve this, no one does."

He led him into the tent. And there she lay, laid out and still. Her ebony black hair framed her face, making her already pale skin appear even whiter. As peaceful and as beautiful as life, no, even more beautiful. Was she really dead or just asleep?

Slowly Rethtulu stepped up to the bier and looked at his beloved wife. As if she were asleep ... But a deep world-weariness seemed to show on her face, a sorrow that only she understood. Her hands were on her swollen belly, poorly hiding the bloodstain.

Rethtulu's face contorted in pain and sorrow and he grasped her hand. Without his being able to stop it, tears came to his eyes again. Crying, he buried his face in her clothes. She even still smelled of her! How could Vórimadis really be dead? But there she lay before him, still and lifeless, and yet he simply could not - _would_ not - comprehend it. All the things they would never experience together again ran through his mind. All over, for good. Even if she were ever allowed a second life, he would have to wait for many millennia. And would he even recognise her then?

Hours must have passed during which he stood at her camp. Probably he had also fallen asleep in the meantime from exhaustion. When he woke up from one of these sleep phases and this time really came to, he noticed how someone, probably father or brother, had sat him down on a chair and wrapped him in a blanket. No one was to be seen. He looked at Vórimadis as if something had changed in her condition over time. But no, still she had not returned to him, still she was so far away from him that he would never be able to reach her unless he walked the same path as she. Would he be able to? Take the path to Mandos?

No.

Gently he stroked her full hair, as silky as in life.

"Why did you follow me?" he whispered into the silence. "You knew it was going into battle for me. You knew this was no place for women. And yet you came here, to your death." Saying it, however, did not make it any more real. Still his mind balked at wanting to grasp the obvious.

"My beloved ..." The words died away empty in the darkness. "You will always be in my heart. You both will be."

He rose and searched for a candle in his father's tent. Until now, the camp torchlight streaming in through the narrow slit of the entrance had been enough for him, but now he needed more light.

Finally he found what he was looking for, lit the candle and then went in search of pen, ink and paper. Vórimadis would not leave these realms without a memento of him, perhaps this letter would remind her of him in Mandos.

He sat down, dipped the quill into the inkpot and began to write with a heavy heart.

My beloved Vórimadis,

Perhaps I am writing these lines to make myself aware of the terrible things that have come into my life this day, but above all I am writing them for you. Do not forget me where you are now and where I cannot follow you! I will never forget you, I swear, forever you will live on in my heart.

Oh, you can't imagine how much I miss you! It almost hurts physically, as if my heart had been torn out of my chest, because you were my heart. Or maybe you can imagine it after all?

What happened? I just can't understand what happened to us. One day you were with me and now, the next, you are gone, so far away. Will I really never be able to kiss you again, never love you again, never hold you in my arms again? Is this reality or just a cruel dream? Give me the answer from where you are now.

What is it like where you are now? Can you find peace there? Will you be able to see our child there? At least you, my sweet beloved, shall be granted to hold our child in your arms! I will never be able to ...

Yes, you will be able to live on in my heart forever, be sure of that. Nothing will be able to push you out of this place, never! You are my heart, my soul, the breath I need to live, the ground I walk and stand on, my harbour where I find safety. How could anything replace this?

I love you. Forever and ever.

Forever your loving Alacenandur

**Author's Note:**

> Túre! Turelva! - Victory! Victory [is] ours!; Quenya  
> Malcimir - jewel of the sword; Quenya  
> Alacenandur - unseen servant; Quenya; "Rethtulu" is only his Noldosindarin name and without any meaning, as was usual for names of this form.  
> Maitimo - well-formed one; Quenya; Maedhros' actual name.  
> Vórimadis - steadfast woman; Quenya  
> Hílyalandur - faithful friend/servant; Quenya


End file.
